


all the cracks in your lips

by qthulhu



Series: immeasurable fingerprints [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthulhu/pseuds/qthulhu
Summary: Security had been a comfort Foggy underappreciated over the years. He woke up to a bright, dependable sun. Sometimes dew would stick to the greenery, other times it'd be beautiful, pristine frost. The best days were late December icicles reaching for the snow from atop the barren trees. Sue him, Foggy loved that cheesy shit. Every day, the sun rose, and every night, it set. The conditions may change, but the pieces of the setting never changed. On Saturdays, his mother left a voicemail if he happened to sleep through her call, otherwise, Foggy woke to shallow, comforting familial gossip. Occasionally, his sister might hop on the line. Once or twice his niece, those days were some of his favorite. Work was the most tumultuous aspect of his life: Nelson and Murdock operated day by day, case by case, sometimes without a Murdock, sometimes without a Page. Someone, however, was always there. One or both of his best friends showed up to work in (overall) good health throughout the week.Security had been a comfort burned to a pile of ashes by the Devil of Hell's Kitchen in one fell swoop.But life goes on.





	all the cracks in your lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amatiramisu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatiramisu/gifts).



> the end credits scene for daredevil that absolutely nobody asked for

 

Matt's grin is split down the middle, haunted and raw, the color of cherries and sour wine shared over an expensive meal. His smile is expensive. The price? More often than not these days, it was paid in busted knuckles and scarred fists. This smile costs more - a few stitches, a couple of shattered ribs, and one very pricey bottle of wine. But, god, is it worth the price. 

They pop the bottle like royals, and drink until they're merry. Foggy giggles periodically. Somehow, one of his hands ends up on Matt's elbow every few minutes like some kind of reversal of a past life. He can't remember the last time Matt clung to his skin like he  _depended_ on him. This new cautious, self-isolating (Is that really new? Has it ever been? Foggy still doesn't know, but he's too drunk to ponder this rickety trail of thought) Matt would never allow such a thing again. That fact peels his fingers from Matt's soft, black shirt. Disgust pools in his gut until he forgets, and the process repeats. Matt frowns in time with his cycling shame, but refrains from commenting. The man is a saint in Foggy's book.

The king is defeated: Wilson Fisk shan't lay another grimy palm upon their lives. The fucker is in  _prison._ For  _life._ The trial, the second one in Wilson Fisk's miserable excuse of a life, ended two nights ago. Of course, Nelson and Murdock (the lawyers, separate entities, not the defunct? - they're still talking about it, but that's a conversation for the morning when their blood isn't 50% rotten grapes - law firm) were barred from interfering, but that didn't stop them from following the case. And Fisk got his ass  _nailed_ to the fucking wall just like he deserved. Vanessa, too. So they've earned an evening of celebration. Sue them.

The three of them - because of course, Karen is welcome to douse the unending hellfire that is their lives with alcohol like the best of them - spread out on Matt's furniture. Karen, in particular, stretches her lithe form like a pleased little alley cat. A snore bubbles from her lips just as Foggy forgets she's there. Neither man has the heart to shake her from her rest. She's earned one good, long night of sleep, and the reasonable, intoxicated pair fear she'll turn back on and never shut off again if they flip her switch prematurely.

So Matt sits on the loveseat, and Foggy leans on his calves from the ground, sometimes tethered to Matt by a pinch of fabric. 

The sun set months ago, the angry red sky bleeding into the void. Foggy misses the sun. Foggy misses Matt. Foggy misses Nelson and Murdock.

It's not just the practice Foggy misses; he misses the ease. He misses sharing a secret language in gentle touches, shoulder taps and elbow squeezes and the calloused ( **fuck** that should've been an obvious sign, Matt's hands always had rough callouses for no discernible reason. Why the hell would his hands be so scarred, so battered, so-) pads on the back of his neck. 

By jove, Foggy Nelson is  _touch-starved._ While he has a girlfriend! A very beautiful, very loving,  _very_ tactile girlfriend. What a conundrum. 

Matt agrees, judging by his childish laughing. Foggy flicks his kneecap.

Warmth tickles Foggy's cheeks, then he's ashamed, and the process of self-flagellation repeats again with renewed strength. His eyes find a stain on Matt's shaggy little rug that's either dirt or dried up blood. He waits for his wounded ego to go down. Matt ruffles the hair at the back of his neck.

"I miss your long hair," he whispers. Matt's eyes are downcast, as if attempting to capture Foggy's and hold him there so he can play with the soft mess on his head all night long. Frankly, Foggy would sit on the filthy floor till his ass cramped if Matt asked him to right now. Foggy hushes him, a finger on his lips, and Matt hushes back, and they return to little secret smiles. The split between Matt's lips opens. His face is splotchy, relaxed in ways Foggy hasn't seen in  _years_ , and god is that breathtaking. He could paint that shit on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The Pope might get a little pissed, though. Oh well. 

Midnight rolls around, then one, and two, and they're still wrapped around one another like vines. 

"I'm glad you didn't kill him," Foggy says, once. Victory is ambrosia the flavor of ripe strawberries.

"Me too," Matt sounds relieved. Foggy fantasizes about Matt burning all the black shit he owns and the sexy red BDSM suit. He won't. It's a part of him.

"I'm glad you're here," Matt says. He sounds sincere. Grateful. Foggy doesn't have answer for that. Matt's painted in warm gold from the single scented candle on the coffee table. Cinnamon, a Christmas gift from Foggy's mother. They switched the lights off long ago, when Karen's eyes barely squinted and her words flowed from her mouth in hurried gasps. The single candle might have implications in other settings, but Matt can't see it and Foggy's the only one subject to said implications. The delectable fragrance they share, though.

 _Why does Matt look so fragile in this light?_ Foggy cradles the thought and patiently waits for something to come of it. It doesn't.

Two bleeds into three, and three bleeds into four. Foggy's chin digs into Matt's thigh. He's asleep, so he can't feel the kiss on his head or the blanket draped over his shoulders. Matt selfishly returns to his position, careful not to wake Foggy, and settles in. He allows this one, crystalline moment of happiness. They drift to sleep together, two leaky, forlorn ships passing in the still night.

Foggy, the unlucky bastard, awakes first. The creak in his neck makes him want to die immediately, and his tongue tastes stale. His mouth makes the weirdest, sloppiest wet clicks as he attempts to wet his lips. He groans in pain. Above him, Matt huffs. His nose scrunches adorably. Foggy freezes, terrified of breaking this moment and facing real life after such a gentle, quiet night. Matt tugs the blanket right off Foggy's now trembling form, and cocoons himself in the warmth. Apparently satisfied, his face smooths. This moment, this delicate slice of serenity glittering on the rim of emptied wine glasses and promises of better tomorrows, begs to be captured. Foggy kneels and snaps several shots of Matt, his yellowed fluttering eyelids, his cracked (and bleeding again, damn it how does he manage that in his sleep) lips, his captivating calloused hands that Foggy has come to love for all their broken and bruised and scarred glory, the O of Karen's lips as she exhales, the little crease between her eyes, the moles on her cheeks. All their imperfections captured in an impulse. Foggy grins to himself. They sleep soundly, unaware of his embarrassing weakness.

The clock on Matt's microwave says it's a little after ten in the morning, and hell if Foggy ain't feeling a mighty hankering for a muffin and freshly brewed coffee. He doesn't even bothering changing as he gets up. His bones rattle, hollowed as they would before a long thunderstorm. Foggy grunts, opens the door, and leaves Matt's apartment with the hopeful glint of a young man in his eyes.

Casey at the Starbucks across the street greets him with a soft hello. She reads back his order - coffee black as sin for one Miss Page, a macchiato with the smallest pinch of nutmeg atop the glorious foam as a treat for one Matthew "grump" Murdock, and a delightfully sugary latte with all the fixin's for himself. All drinks large, all drinks extra espresso. They've got a long day ahead full of some difficult questions. 

"Hell, throw in three of your chocolate chip muffins and one of those sesame bagels," Foggy says with a roaring yawn. Casey nods, toasts it lightly just like Matt likes it per Foggy's request, and totals the order. She smiles as he leaves. Perhaps he even lets a little skip worm its way into his step as he enters the apartment elevator. 

"Hey, guys! Wake up! I bring good tidings, and a breakfast fit for champions. Well, for a couple of hungover lawyers and a mad journalist, but anyways," Foggy calls. He knocks on the door definitely loud enough to alert Matt's wicked senses, but there's no answer. He stacks the food on the coffee lids, teetering as he uses both hands to gingerly turn the knob. "I'm barely juggling all this as is, you lazy jerks. You _owe_ me."

Two fluttering piles of dust wisp toward the ceiling in the same moment that Foggy's forearms breakout in coffee-inflicted second degree burns.

 


End file.
